Chapter 9: The Devil’s Ledger

The note was smeared with dried blood—Marco’s blood, I realized with a sickening lurch—but the handwriting was precise, sharp, almost elegant. It had been tucked beneath the floorboard of my childhood bedroom, hidden in the hollow space where Marco and I used to stash stolen candy. Only he would have known to leave it there. Only he would have trusted me to find it.

*If you’re reading this, I’m dead. Don’t trust the Vitale. Don’t trust Father. The war isn’t what it seems. The night I died, I wasn’t meeting Alessandro—I was meeting Father’s man, Vito. Father wanted me to frame Alessandro for a shipment that never existed. I refused. He said he’d make it look like the Vitals did it anyway. I’m sorry, Bella. I should’ve told you sooner. Burn this. Run.*

My hands shook so violently the paper tore at the edges. The world tilted, the walls of my father’s study closing in as I read it again, and again, and again. Marco hadn’t been killed by a rival family. He hadn’t been killed by Alessandro. He’d been killed by *our own father*—a pawn in a game of manufactured vengeance, a sacrifice to ignite a war that would justify the De Luca family’s grip on the city.

I dropped the note like it was on fire. My mind raced back to the morning in the courtyard: Alessandro’s face, raw with grief and confusion. *I didn’t do this.* And I hadn’t believed him. I’d let my father’s poison seep into every pore of my judgment, turning me into a weapon aimed at the only man who’d ever been honest with me.

“God,” I breathed, pressing my fists to my temples. “What have I done?”

The answer came with horrifying clarity: I’d told Alessandro not to follow me. I’d told him to find the truth alone. And in the meantime, my father had likely been moving pieces I couldn’t see—police contacts, district attorneys, men in suits who owed him favors.

I ran.

The mansion’s halls blurred past me as I sprinted for the garage, my heels cracking against the marble like gunfire. Vito was standing by the door, his ugly grin widening when he saw me. “Miss De Luca, your father said you weren’t to leave without—"

I shoved him hard, sending him stumbling into a potted fern. “Get out of my way.”

The engine of my father’s black Mercedes roared to life. I didn’t care that it was his car. I didn’t care that I was burning bridges with every mile. I only cared about reaching Alessandro before my father’s lies crushed him for good.

The streets of the city blurred into streaks of gray and neon as I drove, my knuckles white on the wheel. I dialed his number nine times. It went straight to voicemail every time. I tried his second line, the one he used for emergencies. Nothing.

*Please, Alessandro. Pick up. Please.*

The Vitale estate loomed ahead, iron gates standing open—a bad sign. I screeched to a halt in the gravel driveway and threw open the door, only to find chaos. Men in dark suits were scattered across the lawn, hands on their heads, surrounded by uniformed police. Red and blue lights washed over the marble fountain where I’d once kissed Alessandro under the stars.

“Where is he?” I shouted, grabbing the arm of a sweating lieutenant I recognized from the wedding. “Where’s Alessandro?”

“Miss De Luca—” He looked at me like I was a ghost. “They came an hour ago. Federal warrants. RICO charges. They took him in cuffs, said he ordered a hit on your brother.”

The ground swallowed me. I stumbled backward, shaking my head, but the lieutenant kept talking, his voice hollow. “His lawyers are already on it, but his father’s convinced it’s a setup. The judge is a De Luca friend. You know how this works.”

I did know. It was exactly how my father operated—strike first, paint your enemy as the devil, and smile while the world applauded you.

“Where are they holding him?” I demanded.

“Central booking, for now. But they’re moving him to a federal facility tonight. There’s no way to—"

I was already back in the car, tires screaming as I tore out of the estate. The city lights blurred as I raced toward the precinct, my father’s voice echoing in my head from a memory I’d buried long ago: *“In this family, we don’t wait for justice. We make it.”*

But I wasn’t his soldier anymore. I was done following orders.

The precinct loomed ahead, cold and gray. I parked crookedly across two spaces, slammed the door, and pushed past a cluster of reporters who recognized me immediately. “Isabella! Any comment on the De Luca-Vitale feud?” “Did you know about your brother’s murder?”

I ignored them, storming through the glass doors, my heart hammering against my ribs. At the front desk, a weary sergeant looked up at me with barely concealed disdain. “Miss De Luca. We expected you.”

“Where is he?”

“Alessandro Vitale is being processed. You’re not on his visitor list, and given the circumstances—"

“I don’t care about your list,” I snapped. “I’m the one who can clear his name. I have evidence that my father orchestrated my brother’s death to frame him. Exculpatory evidence. Do you understand what that means? It means your case is garbage, and you’re holding an innocent man.”

The sergeant blinked, clearly not expecting that. A heavy silence fell over the station, every eye turning toward me. Then a lieutenant stepped forward, his face unreadable. “We’ll need to see that evidence. Now.”

I reached into my jacket—and froze. The pocket was empty.

I patted my chest, my waist, my pants. Nothing. The note was gone. I’d left it on my father’s desk.

Horror flooded through me like ice water. I turned, and there he was, standing in the precinct doorway, flanked by Vito and two federal agents. My father smiled a thin, sharp smile, his suit immaculate, his eyes dead.

“Isabella, darling,” he said, voice smooth as silk. “I thought you might do something foolish. So I made sure you had no other choice.”

He held up the note, now sealed in a plastic evidence bag, and my blood turned to stone.

“This is a forgery,” he announced to the room. “Clearly designed to frame me. My own daughter, manipulated by the Vitale family.” He shook his head, mock sorrow dripping from every word. “Take her into custody, officers. She’s part of the conspiracy.”

Two agents grabbed my arms before I could react. I struggled, screamed, but their grip was iron. My father stepped closer, his mouth at my ear, his breath hot and foul. “You should have stayed loyal, little bird. Now you’ll watch everything I built—and everything you loved—burn.”

Behind him, through the glass doors, a police van pulled away from the curb. Inside its dark cage, I caught a glimpse of a familiar face, beaten and proud, eyes locked on mine.

Alessandro.

He was being taken, and I was trapped.

And my father had everything.